Oh Brother Mine
by SiriuslyScarredforLife
Summary: When Alfred wakes up, it's in a cell with a headache and a list of crimes he didn't commit.


For Miyukixx. Also posted on AO3 under siriuslyscarredforlife.

Alfred woke up in a prison cell with a heck of a headache pulsating in his right temple and blackness dotting his vision. Everything hurt and when he tried to move after gaining his bearings, he found shackles around his wrists and bruises on his knuckles from a fight he didn't remember having. It disturbed him a bit to see that when he looked down, black dots abating so that they only flickered sometimes in the corner of his peripherals- and yes, he was still sporting a headache the size of Russia- he could see the hideous orange of a prisoner uniform that he didn't remember getting into.

His stomach was dropping, like someone had just dumped a handful of lead bricks in it and he felt sick.

He stumbled forward regardless, because he was a hero, thank you, and did Captain America stop whenever his odds were one to a million- Hell no, so he didn't give up too and the curdling of his gut somehow gave him the determination to soldier on and ignore the fact that something had gone terribly, horribly wrong.

"Hey!" he hollered when he got close enough to the bars which he was leaning against because his legs had started to give up halfway and he was already so frigging tired that he was surprised with himself. Outside, the corridor was barren of any wardens but it was a short thing. He contorted his head, pressed his hands against the bars like he could move it with sheer willpower, shifted uncomfortably against cold, harsh metal and managed to catch a glimpse of adjacent cells to his left and right and three empty cells facing him. At one end of the constricted room, there was a barred window that was obviously meant for air circulation more than enjoying the view and on the other, there was an ominous sleek metal door that Alfred reckoned was where he would find his answers.

"Hey!" he shouted hoarsely at the lead door. He kicked the base of the locked cell just to make sure he made a racket. "Where am I? Who put me in here? Who the fuck do you think you are?"

His voice just echoed hollowly throughout the room and the furious, monstrous amplified Alfred-voice made him shrink back involuntarily so that he tripped on his too long prison robes. No one came in. And, he realized with a sinking sensation, that no one was coming in for a while.

He shrunk in on himself some more when the thought grabbed him from behind and shook him so violently that his head was spinning badly again and slowly, almost dream-like, he shuffled back to the depressing parody of a bed- it was just a metal slate protruding from the ground with the barest sheet and pillow ever known to man gracing its face- to the right of the room and sat on it. After an uneasy second thought, he drew his legs up as well and scooted backwards until his back hit the cool, knobby brick wall. He hunched over his knees, which had been pulled up to his chest, and folded his arms around himself. He stared into the empty corridor beyond solid bars and pretended that he was ten again and playing make believe with his brother and just waiting for Mattie to come to him, faux stony-faced and solemn- an expression hilarious on his ten years old face to bribe his invisible warden with a handful of cheap candy. His sunny bedroom didn't equate with the dark prison cell he was in now but he couldn't help hoping that maybe Mattie would come in in a while, swoop in and be his savior, and free him from his lonely, icy, confusing hell.

It didn't surprise him that the first tear fell when he thought of Mattie and he wondered when he'd be able to see his brother again.

He was clapped in chains, shoved to his feet, forced to more forward at baton point and the only thing that was running through his fear addled mind right now was, 'No, no, no, No, NO!'

Apparently, he was a criminal. Apparently, he was on the wrong side of the frigging law because, did you know that Alfred had apparently committed arson, threatened people at gunpoint, looted homes and ran an underground criminal syndicate? No? Well, good for you, because Alfred himself didn't fucking know either!

He bit back the urge to laugh maniacally because, damn, oh damn, wasn't he supposed to be a hero? But here he was now being accused of a long laundry line of dirty crimes.

The warden had come after Alfred had cried his tear ducts out- it felt like an eternity, but by the varying light provided by the small window, he knew that it had only been half the day- and he had looked up from his knees and craned his eyes against the sudden gush of light as a long shadow suddenly appeared at the metal bars.

"Get up," the shadow had said, and Alfred watched the way his upper lip had curled in derision and took note of the rolling American accent that he had. All thoughts had been washed away with his tears but his mind slowly restarted at the harsh tone and the clean click of a key in the keyhole, followed by the jarring clang of old metal being moved.

He stared, and the warden must have thought he looked pretty stupid, all sodden and woe-bedraggled and shrunken, with dried tear stains on his cheeks and eye crust in the sides of his eyes, hair mussed untidily so that his cow-lick fell over his face and poked his right eye unpleasantly, because he suddenly sighed explosively and barged into his small cell with the bearing of a man tasked with a large burden.

"Fucking move it, okay?" The man had snarled at him, and Alfred had felt rough, calloused hands touching his clothes and rubbing at his face, violating in their motion- and he had recoiled in disgust and fear. But the warden had won in the end because he had just been so confused and weary and tired-

So there he was now, tromping down the hallway now, being led in shackles like a common prisoner- when he knew that in his heart of hearts, that he was innocent and there was something so, so very wrong going on right now.

Thankfully, the hall was somewhat deserted of people and the few that passed him barely spared him a glance, while those who took the time to stop and stare were glared away by his warden. It wouldn't be too bad, except, you know, he was being led somewhere for crimes he didn't commit and dammnit how was gonna get out of this shit?

The marble walls looked ominous in their solidity and self-righteous splendor, like it was smirking at him as he walked, and Alfred realized with a sinking feeling that- god, he was actually in a court house and that, oh shit, was he there to be tried for something!? Fan-fucking-tastic.

"Hey," he dug his white shoe-clad (not his) heels into the frictionless tiles and tried to shoot the person behind him with an imploring look.

"Hey!" he began again, agitated," You know I'm innocent, right? You know that I'm being framed, right? That I'm not the whacked up psycho who did all those things!? I am not a fucking criminal!"

He got a rough shove to the shoulder for his troubles and he stumbled and would have fallen if he hadn't hastily grabbed one of the marble supports as he lilted forward.

He continued his tirade again, this time furiously, with his hands half-raised now too in protest, " I am a lawful citizen of America and I deserve my freedom! I haven't fucking done anything!"

"Yeah, yeah, save it for the judge."

He didn't know what came over him next, but came over him it did, and before the sentence fully left his warden's mouth, he had suddenly swung his clasped fisted hands up and struck him right in the jaw, with the strength his brother always complained about and then some-

And then the guard was yelling out, and crumpling onto the ground like a broken toy, and Alfred was taking off down the hall, in a direction he didn't know why he had chosen, chains jangling noisily in the stiff silence.

His breath came in quick, short huffs that were unbearably loud in his ears and he could hardly believe that he, Alfred F. Jones, was on the run from the law because of a mix-up and that he was gonna tried like a criminal if the police ever caught ahold of him.

The thought made him shudder as he ran and the desperation was stifling. He hurled himself into the nearest door he could find, propelled by the urgency brought upon by a sound of a shout of alarm in the direction he had left and the harried drumbeat of boots against the floor, then he froze solid as he came face-to-face with an equally surprised man, who looked the same age as him but infinitely more mature. While Alfred was decked out in ugly orange and was looking disgruntled, chest heaving, face pale and sweaty, this man wore an official looking navy garb with impressive, shiny-looking medals decorating his shoulder and a composed look on his face that was already cooling upon taking in the look of him.

"You!" He exclaimed- and his voice was in this weird British accent that had Alfred reeling for a moment. His strangely thick, blonde eyebrows had furrowed together, bemused. "What are you doing out of your cell!?"

Alfred did what he could to survive, all he could do, really with the way the guards suddenly appeared behind him barring his escape- They'd caught up with him.

He threw himself at  
Mister Fuzzy Eyebrows and, in an impressive feat of strength, knocked away the quick-draw hand that was reaching for his gun, side-stepped the various panicked and incredulous looks and stuck his handcuff chain over his throat, pulling up slightly so it tugged at his jaw in a way that was probably uncomfortable to Mister Fuzzy Eyebrows, and tipped his head up a bit.

Alfred was suicidal. Yep. Suicidal. He was going to die. Die in this cold marble place, not knowing what the heck had happened to put him in jail in the first place, holding a man hostage and surrounded by tons of people who all had various weapons pointed at him.

"I'm telling you!" He shouted, slightly hysterical, slightly pleading, definitely watery and desperate," I- I'll-! I'll do something really bad to this guy!"

He felt the person he was holding stiffen, his ears figuratively perking up and he apologized to his father, mother and brother and God for doing something so immoral.

"What the bloody hell is going on here!?"

He jerked when he heard his captive speak. What? He stared at the head of blond right in front of his cross-eyed gaze.

Even though he was in front of him, Alfred awkwardly 'hugging' the man to his front, he could feel the bewildered stare of his on him.

"W-what?" He blubbered, confused.

"You heard me! Who the bleeding fuck are you!? And why the hell is my battalion of men chasing after you?"

"I'm Alfred F. Jones. And why the fuck should I know!?" He yelled back. He didn't know why but the man's words were getting to him and he could feel himself getting irritated and agitated at the impossible situation he was in. He also started feeling annoyed at the man he was holding captive. How should he know why those guys were after him? Shouldn't he know, after all, since they're apparently his fucking groupies and shouldn't they be answering to him!?

He didn't voice any of his thoughts but he heard an explosive curse at his front and he felt the chain that he was holding to the man's throat bob in time to the sudden expulsion of breath.

The bewildered group of guards in front of him- all of whom were similarly dressed, Alfred finally noticed, with a lighter navy uniform with a police tag on their breast - faltered.

"Sir?"

When the man spoke, it was in a hassled, 'I'm-talking-to-idiots-everyone' tone of voice that made the man who spoke shrink.

"Who is this man?" Mister Fuzzy Eyebrows asked impatiently and the guard flinched.

"The Boss of the criminal syndicate down west, boss," he answered hastily and sketched a salute.

"The Ghost?"

"Yes, sir! He was captured yesterday at the scene of the crime and eye-witnesses confirmed that they saw him do it, sir. So we took him in for custody."

"So this is the Ghost, whom you've called me to transport back to England?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Well, you're so bloody wrong it's not funny."

Alfred, who had been becoming increasingly confused and also enlightened by the conversation- images of the day before were finally starting to filter through his mind, being in the neighborhood west of his home with someone, seeing a theft in the shop nearby, moving to run to help, but getting hit on the head by a heavy thing a second later, sounds of being moved-

In the midst of the forming,' Oh,' that was starting in his mind, he also started to a pause at the cross tone of voice of Mister Fuzzy Eyebrows.

"Sorry, sir?"

"You're wrong," the Brit man spoke again with a huff. He shifted against the lax hold on him and Alfred bit back a curse when his head swiveled so that his gaze was now on him and not that blubbering, confused mess of a guard in front. It was green.

Those green eyes took him in for a moment, flicking over his hair- his cowlick in particular- his cheeks, his jaw, his eyes, his nose, his ears and the rest of him with frightening laser-like vision, categorizing everything, then he was sighing again and shaking himself free of the grip Alfred had forgotten to tighten, ducking under the chain.

Alfred felt horribly exposed as his hands fell uselessly to his sides now that they weren't grasping onto something and Mister Fuzzy Eyebrows circled him like an assessor, sharp green gaze critical.

He stopped finally, in front of Alfred and by then, everyone had more or less lowered their arms at the bizarreness of the spectacle and Mister Fuzzy Eyebrows looked disappointed, irritated and slightly guilty.

Alfred was clueless.

"This," he said matter-of-factly," is not the Ghost. He doesn't look anything like the Ghost! Sure, maybe a little resemblance but I don't know how you people managed to screw up your job so badly."

The unspoken question of all the guards was broken by the thankful, half-hearted whoop of the wrongfully convicted as he slumped.

All bewildered gazes of the guards were either on Mister Fuzzy Eyebrows or Alfred. He ran his hand through his messy blond hair, floppy and unkempt in his bemusement.

"That's what I kept trying to tell you!" He told the room in an affronted voice and he sighed," I'm not this fucking Ghost! I'm just Alfred! And I've been framed! I didn't do anything!"

Mister Fuzzy Eyebrows scoffed, sighed then put one hand on his hip while the other kneaded his nose bridge. Alfred swore he heard an irritable murmur of,' Bloody yank.' followed by a more audible order of, "Get him out of that dreadful prison garb and give him back his clothes for god's sake. Fetch him a hot cuppa." at the room in general.

"Yes, sir!"

Twenty minutes, a lot of yelling and spades of fussing later, Alfred felt semi-normal in his precious bomber jacket with a cup of joe warming his hands. He and Mister Fuzzy Eyebrows were seated at the cafeteria of the police office in the neighborhood and Mister Fuzzy Eyebrows had just handed him a paper to sign that told him of the nulling of the false criminal charges against him.

Alfred just stared at him in a state of weary acceptance as he continued talking on and on in that posh Brit accent that, "Yes, I am terribly sorry for the mix-up of my charges and I apologize on their accounts and of course, you'll be compensated for this unfair imprisonment and a formal apology will be written up, Mr. Jones."

Finally, when he was out of steam and done explaining the legal terms of what the form meant and how, "Yes, you can sue for the wrongful imprisonment but we'd prefer you not to," Mister Fuzzy Eyebrows was exhausted and so was he too.

He was out of energy, it felt like all day his power was slowly draining from him and that at the moment, it was dangerously low like a phone at 5% and he could feel the tell-tale slowing of his brain. He felt like just waving the whole hullabaloo aside and heading home for the night.

And anyway, this police officer didn't seem all that bad- just that he had a stupid platoon assigned to him (though they weren't always like that, he'd defended out of propriety.) In fact, Mister Fuzzy Eyebrows, Arthur Kirkland seemed like the good sort and if he wasn't so frowny and sullen-looking, all serious and posh even in a tiny chair, leg crossed over the other, cup of tea in hand, Alfred would say that he looked kinda alright.

He warranted himself a mental scoff of irritation at the thought. No, he thought to himself, Nope. It's the exhaustion speaking. Too tired with the stuff going on around me.

So he just leaned forward, plucked the pen from the other man's light grasp and signed the paper between them without flourish and when he was done, he simply slumped tiredly, crumpling in on himself.

Mr. Kirkland looked pleasantly surprised, like Christmas has come early. "You," he said slowly, like he didn't trust what he had seen but was reluctant to question the passive action because he didn't want to count his lucky stars," You don't want to sue?"

Alfred just waved him off, dead-tired. "Nah," he groaned, flopping forward to perch his dead weight of a head on clasped hands that were balanced on his thighs to give the Brit a half-hearted grin, half-hearted because he was too tired, Dammnit, right now. "Nope, not a single lawsuit from me," he repeated when the other man just stared at him some more.

There was a considering silence where Mister Fuzzy Eyebrows took a few quiet sips of his tea, then he too leaned forward and copied Alfred's pose, cup and saucer joining the paper between them. His green emerald eyes looked serious and solemn. "You could sue you know," he said quietly," Lord knows that I should be discouraging you from this course of action because of what a hassle it would be for my station, but it's your right and I really wouldn't blame you if you do sue."

Alfred matched his gaze, "Nah," he reiterated," I don't really mind it- on hindsight, I mean. Back then it was scarier than fuck but now that I'm outta there and everything's done, I just wanna forget the whole thing ever happened-" He corrected himself," I mean, I just wanna forget it happened for a bit, then after that, I'll think it's pretty cool! I mean, did you see the way I caught you in surprise and tied you up?" He said, excitedly now.

"Yes, I felt it. I could charge you for physical harm, you know," Mister Fuzzy Eyebrows said dryly, but with no malice. In fact, he looked quite confounded by Alfred- Alfred didn't know why, he just wanted to sleep and hibernate for a while.

"And I could sue," he shot back with a grin.

"You," Mister Fuzzy Eyebrows started but faltered again and stared," are a strange person, Mr. Jones."

He seemingly took in the American's fight to keep his eyes open and attentive-ish looking and his relaxed form in his civilian garb with his criminal uniform gleefully shoved as far away from his person on the table. Then he sighed and chuckled to himself, shaking his head," Bloody odd yanks," he mumbled and he took the paper from the table and tucked it into his shirt pocket, patting it to ensure it would stay.

"Come on, Mr. Jones!" He declared loudly, clapping his hands together, watching the American jolt with a snort- he had fallen asleep, the buffoon, Arthur thought- "Pip, pip! I understand you must be very tired after this ordeal. Please, allow me to send you home."

He received a groggy thumbs up in the midst of a monstrously mannerless yawn that Arthur swore he could see the other's tonsils during.

"Sounds good."

The policeman, who was definitely bordering on awesome in Alfred's book-though he'd be more awesome if he didn't keep mumbling,' Bloody yanks,' under his breath like Alfred was the strange one- delivered him to the front of his house promptly and as he staggered out, lulled to semi-deep sleep mode with the smooth motions of the car, he turned and gave the officer a sloppy two fingered salute.

"Thanks a ton, man!" He slurred, then he almost tripped," I owe you one!"

Mr. Kirkland rolled his eyes," Oh honestly, you look drunk and if I hadn't been with you the past few hours, I would have taken that as the grounds to fine you or something or other."

Alfred merely chuckled.

"Bye, Arthur!" He called and he watched the other's eyebrows shoot up in affront- "Now see here-!"

"Let's get together for a drink sometime!"

Then he promptly turned and stumbled through the lawn and onto the front porch.

The brother in question opened the door at his insistent knocking, door opening slightly with a clock, followed by a whispery, 'Hello?' from the vibrant, strange, familiar, very much-loved purple-hued eye that appeared in the slot of the doorpost and the door.

"Mattie!" Alfred yelled with a wide grin and exaggeratedly thrown arms in invitation for a hug. He knew he must've looked like a crazy wreck to his Canadian brother, whose eye had widened comically- what with the dark eye bags under his eyes, his pale skin and the fatigued expression on his face. "Gimme a hug!"

Matthew unlatched the door immediately and threw himself at his brother with all thoughts of propriety thrown out the window. He looked as he remembered, Alfred noted fondly, warm, homey, familiar, with a wooly red and white sweater on his person and red mittens with a maple leaf printed on them and a red and white flap-eared snow cap smothering his long, messy blond curls- that one curl of hair that Matthew always insisted on having because it differentiated him from his brother- this was always said sourly, but Alfred wondered about the fools who could ever mistake him from his brother, because while Alfred was the hero, Matthew was that stable rock, all calm and collected and rational and sensible and God, he was all the good things in the world that Alfred was not.

He heard a car revving up in the background and subconsciously noted that Arthur had stopped and watched only to ensure that Alfred got to the right house safely and yeah, that was sweet of the Brit- He'd make it a point to drop by the police station to invite him for a drink sometime- then all thoughts were drawn back to his brother when he heard a loud, wet sniffle at his right ear and he imagined the leather there becoming slick with tears.

Automatically, he hugged his brother back and patted his hair as reassuringly as he could.

"Hey, Matt, Matt!" He cooed, quietly for once , even though it was hurting him too to see how distraught Matthew was at his disappearance- he wondered how long he'd been in holding for. "Chill, dude, bro, I'm back. Yeah, I'm back."

The Canadian only cried some more into his shoulder "You idiot!" he cried, whispery voice slightly muffled by the folds of his jacket that he'd buried himself in, "When the police came by and said that you had been arrested for some sort of thing you'd done, I almost had a heart attack! You bastard! You idiot!"

"Aw, Matt," Alfred sighed and he pressed a quick kiss to his brother's matted hair- he only just noticed how frazzled it was and the thought of Matthew chewing his nails as he waited on him made his heart pang unpleasantly," It was a misunderstanding. They got the wrong guy. They thought the other dude looked too much like me and nabbed me instead," he felt his brother stiffen microscopically but he paid the action no heed when the statement finally made him raise his head.

It wasn't such an improvement, though, when all he saw was a blazing fire in those violet eyes that spoke of righteousness and protectiveness for his brother. "I'll kill them," he hissed, eyes flashing, "I'll fucking kill them. They imprisoned my brother for a night and a half and you just want to let them go like that!?"

Alfred was caught in the surreal predicament of having to shush Matthew's surprising potty mouth and restrain him from going after Arthur.

"Matt!" He chuckled slightly incredulously and also worriedly," Don't joke like that. No one's killing anybody!"

"But they put my brother in a holding cell! They treated you like you were a prisoner when you didn't fucking do anything wrong!"

Alfred shushed him some more and maneuvered them through the doorway- they were attracting stares- and into the hallway, door clicking shut soundly behind them.

Matt refused to let go of him even once along the way, and he would have thought that sweet if his grip hadn't been so tight and his eyes hadn't still been burning murderously.

"Matt," he reassured when they were both seated on the sofa in their living room, huddled together like small haven against the world, "It's fine. I don't hold it against them. In fact, it was a pretty interesting experience, ya know..."

His brother gave a watery cough and glare, subsiding slightly," Only you would think being wrongfully imprisoned is 'interesting'. You're such an idiot."

Alfred hummed," Maybe. Anyway, how long was I with the police?"

The grip on him tightened immeasurably. "Since yesterday afternoon..." Matt whispered. Then, unexpectedly, he reared back and threw a solid punch at his shoulder," You idiot! You know how worried I was!?"

Alfred just blinked, rubbing his shoulder," Ouch. But you do know it wasn't in my control, right?"

Matthew deflated against his side again and he felt his head settle on his shoulder. Taking the initiative, he tugged off his brother's snow cap and combed his fingers through his wavy hair. He felt Matt calm under his touch.

"I guess," he said after a while of nothing but Alfred's ministrations," But tell me- they didn't do anything to you, right? No punching, kicking, they didn't lay a hand on you, right? You're alright?"

Alfred thought of the rough manhandling and decided he wouldn't tell Matt that, even though he had tilted his head back and was gazing up at him imploringly with piercing violet eyes.

"Right?"

Alfred rested his cheek against his hair," Nah, bro," he bragged tiredly," I'm the hero, they didn't dare do anything to me."

He got another punch for his troubles but at least it was softer and he could feel his brother's shoulders relax again, like a great weight had been lifted off his chest.

"Good."

The peaceful silence did him in in the end because he fell asleep with his brother pressing next to his side on the sofa. In his state of semi-consciousness and semi-unconsciousness, he sighed gratifyingly when he felt hands in his hair, Matt returning the favor from previously, but he didn't stir, thinking it a dream, when a small murmur broke the silence.

"I'm still killing him, though."

Matthew tucked Alfred into bed when he decided that he was well and truly asleep, as good brothers did. Then he smoothed back his untidy bangs and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"Sorry for the mess, Al," he whispered to the sleeping figure, tired, "I'll try not to get you involved in my problems again."

He closed the door behind him as he exited then, with a swiftness born from controlled rage, he drew his phone, flicked it open and pressed it to his ear, the dial tone ringing in his ear.

"Hello?" he spoke into the receiver, voice hard, "Gilbert? It's Matthew. Could you pass the phone to Lovino? I have some words for him."

"Eh? Hey, Matt. Has your bro been found? We're still working at it here."

He gripped the phone tightly "Yeah. He's with me. Sleeping. No thanks to Lovino. Pass the phone to him now, Gilbert."

He heard a holler, then a voice answering. The phone exchanged hands and an Italian-accented voice filtered through the receiver, worried and anxious.

"Matthew? Dio mio, mi dispiace. I'm so sorry."

"You're lucky he's alright, Vargas," was all Matthew hissed into the phone. Then he snapped his phone shut.


End file.
